


Our Wiser Sons

by toujours_nigel



Category: Kaminey
Genre: Bollywood, Desi Character, Gen, Hindu Character, Minor Violence, Pre-Canon, Siblings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-11
Updated: 2009-12-11
Packaged: 2017-10-04 08:41:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/toujours_nigel/pseuds/toujours_nigel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How Shumon Dutta got orphaned, got violent, got away. (really)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Our Wiser Sons

Baba dies in ’89, two days after the Berlin Wall collapses. Mr. Majumdar babbles a lot about it being a moment in history, and how lucky they are to see it, but all Shumon can think of is Dada’s pinched face, asking Baba whether it will in any way affect the gun-running they’ve recently started. It isn’t anything they’re used to, and already Hamid Chacha has called Baba away many times from meals and Mikhail, and stood guard while Baba’s grinned at men waving guns at him, and even taken them from their hands to admire make and manufacture. He doesn’t like it anymore than Ma does, but Dada sides adamantly with Baba—to show fear is to admit defeat, you know that, Shumon, can’t survive this business without bravado.

 

Which is all fine as it goes, and Dada does now better, with a decade’s experience on him. He has been thinking about it, though, and having guns around to threaten and maim and occasionally kill is a very different proposition from having crates of them packed in grease in the basement—makes you more conspicuous, for one, and stepping on someone else’s turf—several someones, here—is never smart.

 

He never gets to say his piece, because he goes home that day and finds himself smothered against Mashimoni’s breasts, and hears her rave at Hamid Chacha—why didn’t you go get him, what if something had happened, what the hell do you mean nothing did, what if it had, what would I tell Sharmila? It takes effort to pull away from her—her nails leave raised welts along his arms—and ask—ki hoyechhe? Mashimoni, what’s wrong, what’s happened, why are you here anyway? Mashimoni! But she only cries, and pulls him close, and picks Mikhail up, confused and protesting, and trying to kiss away her tears, and he has to shove her forcefully off and demand the story from Hamid Chacha.

 

Who takes him by the arm from the room, and puts a loaded Colt in his hand, and folds his fingers around the trigger before saying—your mother was raped. Your father was made to watch. They were both killed. We haven’t found the pieces yet.—like the slow ringing of church bells, like the call for _namaaz_, irrevocable.

 

The first thing he says, when he can hear himself over the pounding of blood in his ears, is—Dada kothae? Then, eyes clearing—Do we know who did it?

 

The night is a welter of bullets, and asking for ammunition in whispers—hand it to Baba, the new guns are all magnificent. He goes home in the morning, hands stinking of blood and sulphur, while Dada drives straight to Howrah and Mikhail runs down to the car while Mashimoni throws things into a bag and Nimisha fails to baby-sit, and puts his face in his lap and sobs—ami jabo, take me, take me, don’t leave me here, Shumon-da, please, take me with you, please, please, please.


End file.
